Various

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?

They sought a faith’s pure shrine.

Hemans.

It was early in June, 1660, that in one of the oldest settlements of the New England colony, quite a large number of persons were assembled in the best room the town afforded, to worship God according to the rites of the English church. It was the first time since the settlement of the place that the liturgy of the church had been heard there; and the congregation, many of them wept with delight to hear again those well-remembered strains; and their voices swelled in one unanimous response, as the lips of the aged man of God repeated, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.”

Then, when in his sermon he touchingly alluded to the storm of persecution that had driven him out of the quiet harbor, in which he had hoped to lie moored, for his few remaining years, and forced him, a mere wreck, across the wide ocean, many were the tears that fell from the eyes of those who had left parents and homes, and wandered away to this new country. But on the ears of one in particular the sweet and soothing tones of the church-service seemed to fall like magic.

This was a pale, sad, drooping girl, the village schoolmistress; none knew much about her history, save that some three years before, a vessel landed from England, having met with terrible disasters, and brought a company of pilgrims, who, though they could not endure the mummeries which the church was continually borrowing from Rome, yet loved and revered its services, and desired to retain its ritual. Among their number was an old man, accompanied by two young girls, one of them of rare beauty and grace, though her face was worn with weeping and care. The old man was simple-hearted, pious, and benevolent, and soon became much beloved by all the colonists. He was quite poor, having been only a schoolmaster in his native country so that on their arrival he opened a school, in which the fair young girl above mentioned assisted, while the other, Alice, managed the household affairs. Thus things went on until nearly two years had passed, then Alice married, and moved away, leaving Mr. Acton and Mabel alone together. He had become too feeble to attend much to the school, so that Mabel now took charge of that and the house also, beside ministering in every way to the old man’s comfort, who seemed to look upon her as a being from another world, so entirely was his love mingled with veneration; he guarded her with the most jealous care, and watched that none should dare to treat her with disrespect or even familiarity. Such was the reverence with which his example inspired others that she was almost universally called the Lady Mabel. And yet she was neither proud nor haughty; no, never was there a sad heart to which Mabel’s soft voice and lovely face were not soothing as the tones of music; and by the bed of sickness, or in the hour of death, she was always ready to minister help to the afflicted, and to breathe into the sufferer’s ear the blessed promises of the gospel.

But, ah! in all these long dreary years, how had Mabel pined for some voice to breathe comfort into her sad heart, and to awaken once more the chords of affection within its silent chambers. Since a poor persecuted girl, she fled, in the dark and gloomy night, from the princely mansion of her cruel father, “choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season,” how much of suffering, toil, and privation, had she endured.

It was by the help of Alice, her waiting-maid, that her plan of flying to America was formed and carried out. Alice’s uncle, Mr. Acton, had written to her, to announce his intended departure to the colonies, with a company about to sail; and Mabel determined to join him, and accompany them to America. Alice was easily persuaded to escape with her young mistress, and their arrangements had been made some days previous to the wedding-day; but Mabel had hoped till the last that her stern father would relent. Disguised in a suit of Alice’s apparel, she easily effected her escape from the castle, and from thence to the little seaport town, where Mr. Acton resided. To him, Mabel made known all that was necessary of her sad story, and the old man, touched with pity for the poor dove flying from the tormentors, promised his aid and protection as long as she required it. A day or two after they all embarked; and Mabel, as she saw the distant shore sink below the horizon, felt that she was leaving all she loved on earth, and that henceforth her life must be one of toil, hardship, and privation, without a single ray of gladness to cheer and brighten it; but her pure spirit did not waver for a moment; dearer to her the faith in which she had been educated, and which she had so early learned to prize, than luxury or splendor, or even earthly love. Then, too, she was comforted by the thought that her father would not carry out his threat, now that threats were useless, and Mr. Dacre would close his life in peace among his beloved parishioners; and Walter, ah! could he know the sufferings to which she was exposed, how would his loving heart ache—and she thanked Heaven for sparing him this trial; never for a moment did she doubt his constancy, or cease to dwell upon his love as still fully hers. Beautiful faith of a warm, trusting heart! how seldom on earth do we find it.

We have wandered far away from the little band of worshipers, but our readers will at once recognize in the pale sad girl, who listened with such trembling eagerness to the solemn words of the liturgy, Mabel Dacre, (as she once more called herself,) and can readily understand the emotion with which she heard for the first time in so many years, the same pure ritual, which in childhood she had learned to love. Often had a deep manly voice, whose lightest tones were music to her ears, repeated those well known words, and Mabel’s heart was too full for utterance, she could only weep.

And now for a time let us return to Riverdale, and see the changes that have taken place there.

For months after Mabel’s departure, the little cottage was filled with gloom, yet still her sweet loving letters, like gleams of sunshine, often illumined its darkness, and Walter, who now shared the loneliness of Mr. Dacre’s abode, would often sit for hours with one of those precious missives clasped in his hand, and his eyes wandering from one to another of the dear objects which her touch had rendered sacred. There were her flowers, still blooming as freshly as ever, while she whose slender fingers had so often trained their graceful foliage, was gone forever. Alas! how sad, how inexpressibly harassing to his loving heart, was this living death of her whom he so idolized; separated as fully as though the dark portals of the grave had arisen between them, yet with the agonizing thought ever in his mind that far away, in a gay and brilliant throng, her beauty gladdened other eyes, her silvery voice made music to other ears, while her poor lonely heart was yearning to flee away and be at rest.

For a time not a doubt of her constant, faithful devotion to him ever crossed his mind; and even when a long interval passed and no letters came in answer to his repeated and affectionate ones, not a line to cheer his poor desolate heart, he still tried not to give way to despondency or doubt; “do not let us distrust each other, Walter,” these sweet words would come like an angel message, when his hope, and his faith in woman’s love were well nigh gone.

And then a new trial came in the increasing feebleness of his beloved rector. The old man’s worn-out frame could not long have endured even with the gentle cares and sweet cherishing of his adopted daughter. Anxiety for her fate, and the long cessation of all intercourse between them, brought on a melancholy that seemed to deprive him of all energy or strength; and day by day Walter saw the bowed and aged form grow weaker, and the gentle voice more tremulous.

One evening in autumn, as Walter sat by his bedside, reading from that priceless volume, which was now the rector’s only comfort, the post-boy entered with a letter from London.

“It is for you, dear father,” said the young man, at the same time handing him the letter. Mr. Dacre’s eyes glowed with unusual lustre, and he said reverently, “Thank God! I shall once more hear the sweet words of affection from my darling child! read it to me, Walter, I am too blind to read it myself.”

Walter opened the letter; but at the first glance a chill like ice crept over his frame. “It is not from Mabel, father,” he said, in a voice of such ill-suppressed agony, that Mr. Dacre started, then almost gasping for breath, he read as follows:

“Oh God! must I drink this cup of bitterness! My Mabel false to her faith; my child, my child, it must not be,” murmured the old man—and his cheek grew paler and paler. The shock was too great for his weak frame, and with one long sigh his ransomed spirit fled to its eternal rest.

What language can paint the bitterness, the deep intensity of Walter’s anguish. That Mabel, his beloved, his plighted wife, could be another’s, was a thought too fearful for his soul’s strength; he could not believe that there was on earth a misery so great. No, it should not be; and he cried aloud in the terrible struggle with his agony,

“I will tear her away from them all; I will fly to her, and lay at her feet my wealth of despised affection. Yes, I will snatch my treasure from those gilded nobles, and bring her to some lonely wilderness where none shall dare molest us.

“Oh Mabel, my love, my precious one; can your heart so soon have grown cold; have you forgotten already in your gorgeous home the happy cottage where you grew in innocence and beauty, and each day, each hour, I loved you with an intense and yet tenderer passion? Is the gay world, then, so alluring, so fascinating. Alas! I could not give my darling wealth, or luxury, or splendor, and in her new home, she has found them all. Poor, presumptuous fool that I was, to think that amid the gifted, the learned, the flattering crowd who throng around the peerless Lady Mabel, she could remember through long years of absence, the humble, unknown curate.

“And yet she bade me not doubt her even in the darkest hours, she was so true, so loving, so constant; is there not some ray of hope; some little ground for faith”—and in very despair he read again the fatal letter—“by Lady Mabel’s request,” met his eye, and once more he flung it from him.

“Ah, Mabel, could you not have spared me this pang. You feared lest I should intrude upon your happiness, lest I should scare away the golden visions that are lulling your conscience to sleep; fear not, I shall never come to reproach you; life shall henceforth be a vain yet constant struggle to forget thee.

“And can it be, oh God, my king, that thou requirest of me a broken heart—is this, indeed, thy chosen sacrifice? Then be it so—‘thy will be done.’

“But ah, not here let me live, not amid these scenes let my future years be spent. Here every thing speaks of her; each sound in nature seems to thrill my heart with that dear name; the little birds call Mabel in the joyous tones she used to warble, and the river sighs forth her name as it flows along to the ocean.

“I shall never conquer myself here, never be a useful, calm, devoted servant of Him to whose cause I am pledged. Far from all these happy memories, let me seek a new and wider sphere of action. I will go forth into the life and freshness, the hardy vigor and stern independence of the pilgrim settlements; and may God grant me strength and power to carry forward his work, though it lead me even among the wild savages of a western wilderness.”

Such were the thoughts that daily passed through his tortured mind; and ere many months passed Walter Lee stood on the deck of a vessel that was bearing him to his new home. He had joined a brother clergyman who, with his young sister, a fair and lovely girl, were, like him, seeking new scenes and associations. They were the last of their family; and on them, too, the insidious hand of disease had impressed its symptoms, though to the girl it only added a richer glow to the transparent cheek, and a more sparkling lustre to the radiant eye; but Charles Wentworth, for that was the name of the young clergyman, was already, to all eyes but his own and his idolized sister’s, the marked victim of that fatal disease, by which nearly all his family had suffered.

Consumption had given that pale cheek its wan, haggard look, and to those large eloquent eyes their peculiar and unnatural fire. His voice, though full of melody, was feeble and low as a woman’s; and, unable to preach, he had resolved to try change of air, in hopes that his own and his sister’s health would be benefited.

Walter had formed a strong friendship for the pure-minded and talented young man, whose gentle and affectionate nature needed a strong heart to lean upon; and the lovely Evelyn, too, he regarded with a deep and painful interest; so frail and fair a tiding you seldom saw, with a hold on life so insecure, and yet so gay and unconscious; her thoughts, her hopes, and her whole loving heart were with her brother, for whom she fondly pictured a future of happiness and success in the new world where they were going. And for herself, she had no thought beyond the pleasure of the moment, in adding to his comfort, in contributing to his enjoyment. Such were the feelings of all when they commenced their new life; but Walter Lee was not one toward whom a young and susceptible heart like Evelyn’s could long remain unmoved; his devotion and tenderness to her brother, his earnest, affectionate, and serious pleadings with her, upon those subjects in which he was himself most deeply interested, and his brilliancy and eloquence in conversation, charmed her completely, and ere she was herself aware of it, she loved him with all the depth of her nature. Charles knew by the varying color of her cheek, and the ardor with which she hung upon every word and look of their beloved friend, that her heart was wholly his, and he trembled lest her love should not be returned; for he knew the slender chord of her life would soon be broken under the burden of an unrequited passion.

With nervous and painful anxiety, therefore, he watched each motion and glance of William’s, for so our hero had told them to call him, his heart, so sensitive when they first met, could not bear to hear from woman’s lips the name of Walter. Evelyn’s voice, too, was singularly like Mabel’s, so much so that at times a tone or word of hers would send the blood in a warm glow to his cheek, and cause him to reply with a tenderness of look and accent that though it was but momentary, always sent a thrill of joy to the young girl’s heart.

“William,” said Charles Wentworth, one evening, as they sat together in their new home, admiring the rich hues of the autumnal leaves, and listening to the sweet music of Evelyn’s voice, as it came to them from the little garden where she loved to wander, “how is it, William,” he asked earnestly, “that, with a heart so sensitive and warm, you have never loved?”

With a sudden start, and turning away his head while his voice sunk to an accent of touching pathos, William replied, “I do love;” then hastily recollecting himself, he hesitated, and said in a hurried and agitated voice, “Yes—that is—I mean I love an ideal of my own.”

But Charles heard not the confused explanation, he dwelt with secret rapture on the thought that Evelyn was loved; she would be so happy, his sweet, his lovely sister; he knew that no one could help loving her.

A few months had passed away, and Walter (or William, as I suppose we must now call him) gradually becoming more dependent upon Evelyn’s society for his happiness, so sad and bitter were the memories that haunted him when alone, that he would fly to her presence to dispel them; it was a relief to his slighted heart to be so fondly welcomed; and almost unconsciously he was led on, till Charles had no longer any doubt that his affections were fondly Evelyn’s, and she so happy, so blessed in his presence, asked nothing more. The cold bleak winds of autumn, with their first breath, seemed to chill the little life in Wentworth’s feeble frame; every day he failed, and yet Evelyn could not, would not believe that he was passing away.

One evening, after a wretched day, he insisted upon being lifted into a chair, that he might behold the sun-set. Alas! it was only to hasten a few days the approach of the fatal messenger.

The exertion was too great for him, a large blood-vessel ruptured, and in a few moments all saw that his life was fast ebbing away.

Evelyn and William stood by in mute despair, the former, her cheek deadly pale, her whole frame convulsed, bent over him in that silent, tearless anguish, so terrible to behold.

“William,” whispered the dying man, “come near, I have a solemn charge for you—my darling sister! oh guard her, cherish and protect her, as you value my peace in death. I give her to you; oh promise me that you will be to her, father, brother, husband—all; promise me this, my friend, my only friend—and he took the cold passive hand of Evelyn and laid it gently in William’s, then clasping them in his own, he said, you promise me never to leave her, to value her happiness more than your own; do you not, oh will you not promise this for the sake of a dying man?”

“I will—I do promise,” faltered the young man, in earnest, solemn accents; “and may ‘God do so to me and more also,’ if I ever willingly cause her pain.”

“I know you love her,” Charles continued; “I have seen it in your every act; and oh, William, you have yet to learn the wealth of love and tenderness in that young heart—it is thine, all thine.

“God bless you, dear ones; do not mourn for me, I am so happy thus to die;” and here the low tones, grew fainter and fainter, the large eloquent eyes gave one last lingering look of ardent love, and then were closed forever.

William’s words and presence alone had power to soothe or even moderate the intensity of Evelyn’s grief; and he would not leave her until he saw her restored to something of her accustomed cheerfulness. He talked to her kindly and tenderly of their future home, when he should have a settled parish; he tried to persuade his own heart that he was happy; but at times memories of the past would come before him, and a longing so irresistible to behold once more the face that even now haunted his dreams, would take possession of him, that even to Evelyn, so blinded by love, he appeared constrained and unhappy; and tears would fill her loving eyes as she gazed upon him, and felt she could not drive away his gloom; then William would call to mind his promise, to care for her happiness before his own, and would hasten to chase away the tears, and recall her wonted brightness. But with all his cherishing, he could not but perceive that her health was declining, and he earnestly besought her to be more careful and prudent, and to guard more watchfully against the first indications of disease. “Oh, you are too fearful, my William,” she would say, in a cheerful tone, yet in her own secret heart she often mourned in bitterness of spirit over her doom, for such it seemed to her.

“I have good news for you, dearest,” said William Lee, as he entered the lowly home of the widow lady, with whom, since her brother’s death, Evelyn had lived. “I have heard from Mr. Clare, the kind old minister whom you remember as having crossed the sea with us. He writes most urgently for you to come to them at once; and his daughter, Mrs. Ives, adds a most affectionate postscript, to say that our wedding, my Evelyn, shall take place at her house. I have already found you an escort, as I am obliged to set out on my western expedition to-morrow. Can you be all ready for a start to-morrow?”

“Oh yes, I am quite ready; and since you must leave so soon, I shall be very glad to go. I shall be so much happier there among those who knew our dear Charles.”

Accordingly, a few days found Evelyn settled as an inmate in the house of Mr. Clare, the aged man of God whom we mentioned as having been the first to establish an Episcopal church in the little town of M——. While William, who longed to escape for a while from all society, and nerve his mind for the performance of that promise, which yet weighed heavily on his heart, was going as a missionary among the Indians. Often would he reproach himself that he could turn from the fond, tender, passionate love of Evelyn, and sigh for a heart that had cast him off forever.

“I will go away,” he said to his poor struggling heart. “I will go among the Red Men of the woods, and there, in solitude, and amid the vastness of nature, I will learn to school my heart; I will bury her image in the pathless woods, and return a new man.” Alas! how vain the effort to flee from that which we carry within us; to seek ’mid change of scene for that which we can never find—forgetfulness.

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